The Band Room
by iAmABandGeek101
Summary: As I near the end of my time, I think about the one place where I had become who I am.


**This is just something that popped into my head while I was getting ideas for my Harry Potter story. This is based on the King's Cross chapter of Deathly Hallows. I will post the next chapter of my HP story by Sunday, for sure. I had just been too busy.**

**The idea belongs to J.K. Rowling. The setting and characters belong to me.**

I knew it was my time to go. My bones were old and achy. My auburn red hair turned to white; the curls flattened out. The trumpet I had bought at fifteen was sitting on the dresser, wanting to be played again. Its brass lacquer was peeled and chipped; the slide valves scratched and useless with age. I thought fondly of that Saturday I walked into the music store; head held high and ready to tackle the world. I paid the $150 for the beginner's horn and ran home to begin learning the shiny piece of metal in my hands. Two months of hard practice had gotten me ready for my brass debut. My clarinet would now lie in its case, still even to this day. I look in on it occasionally, to help bring back memories of middle and high school; the days were I was young and naïve, where I only had to worry about band, school, and my part-time job at the local Italian restaurant.

I think back to the times where my friends and I would hang out in the noisy band room. The percussionists would be playing with mallets on keyboards, a trombone would be practicing in the back room, kids would be lying on the floor finishing the last of their homework, and groups would stand by the door, laughing and conversing about any random topic. The spacious room, huge if empty, was always crowded with band geek and not. Trophies and plaques covered every square inch of wall space, telling us of achievements before our grandparents were even born. Some where bright and glossy, and some where dusty and discolored with age and we held each with pride. The director told us stories of past experiences, laughed at my crazy accidents, and would, on occasion, yell at us for the stupid things we did. We all loved it, the band. We stood tall, overcame the many challenges handed to us in the six years I was there.

Two years after I graduated, a fire ravaged through the school building, destroying everything in its path. Only one piccolo made it out in good condition. The alumni of the band, including myself, cried at the loss of our physical memories. All was rebuilt, but never to its former glory. The program fell in ruin; no one joined; only ten kids left in the marching band its final year. The band room became a storage space for broken chairs and desks, and then was torn down twenty years later. I was there when the wall crashed down. My husband and I, who had graduated from the band a year before, stood there and watched as the past was buried beneath a pile of rubble.

Fifty years had gone by since that day. Seth had passed away ten years ago. All I had left were my three kids and my trumpet. I climbed out of bed and picked up the old brass trumpet of my youth. I blew in and it still created its sweet melody, even after years of sitting. The valves no longer worked and were permanently stuck, but that did not matter to me. I blew my last song and my body fell into an everlasting sleep.

I opened my eyes and found myself in a trophy-covered room. The lights overhead were bright, and red chairs were set up in formation. I heard the sound of a distant trumpet, and I came to the stunning conclusion that I was unclothed. The second that thought came into my head, a set of clothes, like the ones I wore when I was young, had appeared out of thin air. I quickly put them on before the trumpeter came in. I realized, as I was dressing, I no longer ached all over. I turned to a mirror that was hung up on the wall to find that I looked fifteen again. My hair fell into curls and its color was as vivid as it was years back. I see in the reflection, a case sitting on the other side of room. I walked there and opened it. The trumpet of my past, restored back to the day I bought it. I smiled, knowing I was coming to conclusions of what was happening.

I heard a door creak, coming from a side door, and out came a boy with lots of curly blond hair. He held a trumpet case in his hands, swinging it like I had always remembered. He turned to face me. "So, are you coming? The bus is waiting." He held out his hand. I picked up my trumpet and grabbed his hand. We walked to the door and I turned around for one last glimpse of the band room, looking like how I remembered it seventy years ago. I opened the door and Seth and I head to bright light of the beyond.


End file.
